What twist of fate has turned my life upside-down,
Is it irony that has stricken me so?
Who is this jester playing this cruel joke on me?
Is it some game of chance, that I’m destined to play?
Too contrive, connive, convince all is my right.
To be, to breath, to love, to feel passion
Stay for a moment
Stay for the night.
Stay throughout my life.
Your touch, your warmth, in quiet, in each other's arms.
Arms too strong.
I would hold you forever,
I could not hold on for long.
You turned to dust and fell through my fears.
Your dust moistened by only my tears.
Thoughts from 1997
Oh, cruel black widow why do you taunt me?
I'm hopelessly stuck in you web.
You're waiting for me to weaken, then you'll strike,
Pausing, just long enough to say, "Yet another!".
Your smile, like the sun, rises above the distant horizon.
As it climbs, warmth stirs the air around me.
The clouds, carried aloft, move and change,
Like the expressions of your face.
In awe, I watch them, this changing face.
And marvel at its beauty.
As the sun sinks below the horizon,
And the stillness of night, is ushered in, I'm not without light.
For your eyes are the stars, and their twinkle sparks my night.
In a slow whirling motion our bodies moved as one.
To a rhythm deeper than the bands melody.
My gaze transfixed by the sparkle in your eyes,
And makes me blind to all the din.
The only sound that mattered is your gentle voice,
As it carries quiet truths.
I'll always remember each word you speak.
And that smile you choose to share.
Of all these memories, that I'll treasure the most,
Is the warmth and tenderness of your embrace.
With the timidness of youth we shy from opportunity.
With maturity opportunities are few and resistance too great.
In old age opportunities are the memories of what might have been.
So find strength to see through the shyness of today.
Stay resolved to ward off resistance.
And take solace in knowing, you've lived your dreams,
Or at least put them to rest.
Silently the epitaph reads...
In wisdom we are poor.
In turmoil we are rich.
In death we are silent.
Flotsam or Jetsam
Like a kid I threw the drift wood out to sea. I thought, if it would return we will be united. If it floats out into the ocean you would be lost to me forever. I walked along the shore, following the seeming meandering of the surf. Flotsam or Jetsam. Love or lost. What would this symbolic kid's gesture yield? "She loves me, she loves me not," where is the daisy. Where will this lead? A wave pushed the log almost within reach. Then it receded and the log teasingly inched away. I followed along the shore. Would the sea release my heart or would it carry the log to its icy chamber. Another large swell and the log drew near. Almost within reach just an inch more. I jumped into the surf. My sneakers became wet, but I got the log. I threw it far above the high water mark. The log was safe from the sea. It counts just the same--doesn't it.
A mere mention of her name visits me with memories and wishful dreams. During these short spring weeks I have reviled and reeled in emotions stronger than any I have every felt. I have realized that my existence revolves around her and when she's not present my life has no center--no focus. I am like a lifeless celestial body traveling through the dark matter of space but I have no direction. I'm not bound by any force of nature. I have mass and inertia so I pass through the cosmos by distant binary stars that shine brightly together. I imagine the birth of stars at the galaxy's nucleus where mass and gravity work together creating the miracle of life. I see the death throws of old stars blinking out of existence. I've even witnessed the glorious end to a massive star, a nova, but when I've looked after it's passing I've seen new life, built from the matter of its parent.
I hear no sounds in space. I can not touch, smell, or taste these stars. I can only look from afar and hope that one day I'll be captured by their gravity, then I'll have a home, some star of my own to revolve around.
The beach's white silica sands stretch on for miles, from the noisy confusion of the carnival, to the calm tranquility of the breakwater. Early spring storms surged high onto the beach depositing a ribbon of seaweed. Lining the dunes are signs telling of the value of dune grasses. They are the binding force that holds the dunes together from the erosional affects of wind and wave. These grasses provide shelter to countless birds. Here these birds nest and raise their progeny reasonably safe from predation, but never secure from the sea.
Down from the dunes the deep sand begins. This section acts as a busy median strip that separates life from the dune, with the life at sea. It is a busy place where late night turtles trudge to lay their eggs, and flies feast on the bounty of seaweed. Here people spread their beach blankets and race down to the sea.
People populate the beaches too. In this world filled with people there are few places where we can live harmoniously with nature. On the beach, whether we're there to play or just to relax, we have fewer demands and expectations so we ask less of our surroundings, and the environment of the beach remains unchanged.
Don't look too closely; this is an idealist view. Moment by moment, wave by wave, the sea renews the beach. Look behind you at those footsteps that snake outside the breaking surf. Watch for long and they’ll be gone, washed away by the sea. On the beach, the primordial beach, ancient as the world itself, life began. Tidal waters were filled with a broth, then warmed by the sun, and carefully stirred by an invisible hand, creating life. Single cellular plants populated the sea reacting with the sun and producing oxygen. In the wink of a cosmic eye our planet aged, evolution played pinball and humans walked this primordial beach. Our fingers and opposable thumb possess the power of destruction but also creation. We too can live in harmony with the sea.
Mountains are grown and then they erode. Quantities of various compounds change in our air. Rain water can even be used as a defoliant. The sea remains. It's surface seemingly intractable, resilient to humanity's forgetfulness. Don't look to close, humanity, don't look below the surface. Generations are responsible to the sea, for dumping our garbage and pouring our chemicals. On the surface the sea is constant. It caresses the beach as it always had, arranging granule and pebbles to some higher design. It brings to the shore jellyfish, seaweed, and kelp. Here they've come to rest. From far off places they've drifted on the whims of the sea and wind. Here they now lie, at our feet, ready for our inspection.
Pick it up, become a child again. Is it a marble or a jellyfish? It's a perfect sphere, spongy to the touch, filled with a myriad of tiny bubbles. It feels tacky, but remove your fingers and they remain dry--inexplicable life, a gift from the sea.
The late afternoon sun warms the air and people walk the beach. Teenagers are playing hacky sack. They're laughing and cajoling among friends. A young couple walks by, arm and arm, with eyes transfixed and deep in conversation they're not observing the gifts from the sea. But their gift is just as valuable--the gift of love. Further up the beach a young family plays toss. The father gently lofts the ball to his son. He offers encouragement to the young boy when the ball drops to the surf. He applauds the boy when the return throw is right on. The mother and daughter stoop to pick up shells. They're learning from the gifts of the sea.
Walking quickly by is a different couple. A silver haired man in his late 60's and a young woman in her early twenties. They look like grandfather and granddaughter, She having returned from college, he wanting to catch up on her life. She has met a boy, a young man. He's interested in the same things, they enjoy each other's company, and he's really cute. She hopes they will be married. The silver haired man is wise and suggests that she not rush into anything. She hears him and still knows the truth--intuitively not analytically he is her one true love.
At the extremity of the beach is a boulder breakwater projecting out into the sea. It protects the channel beyond and the boats bobbing on their moorings. Standing on the furthest most boulder is a lone man looking out across the expanse. In his eyes are tears of loss and longing, guilt and hope, confusion and desire. The wind is blowing strongly now and he fastens the hood of his sweatshirt.
As he ponders the sea several geese race by, a foot above the waves. They seem to be playing a game of chicken. Who dares to fly closest to the waves? A mistake, a miscommunication, and one or more of them will crash into the sea. They're not playing for keeps. They will take to flight again. The man on the breakwater may not.
Along the beach is a volleyball net that the sun has just set beyond, no more games will be played on this beach today, and the people must be moving on. To the East the curtain of night draws closed, darkness is all about. Still distant flashes of light are seen, from lighthouses or buoys at sea.
She's a whirlwind, because nothing about her stands still, and no one she approaches stands unruffled. Like a tornado she materializes from converging air masses and sucks up everything in her path. Most things in her way end up in a jumble. Miraculously some things are set back neatly in their place. I'm still several thousand feet high held in the center of this vortex. I'm just waiting to see what will happen to me.
It recurs from time to time. A terrible dream
It wakens me. I'm in a cold sweat.
I'm not this person. Am I?
A night sky conceals me. I lie in wait.
He staggers by me. I hate him.
It seems so real. I raise the knife to his throat.
It's all too real. I draw it across his neck.
I feel hot blood. It gushes across my arm.
He slumps forward. His gurgled shouts are in vain.
He crumples to the dark earth. I disappear into the night.
I am myself. I am coldly calculating.
I create an alibi. I clean my clothes.
I dispose of the knife. I bathe.
So real a dream. Or a suppressed memory?
Yarn and needles,
Smells of soap and roses,
Soft words of praise, loud words of care,
Starlight at three
Motionless shadow, lurk
No sound but the soundless owl
It used to rock.
In September it stilled.
She no longer sits with us, but
Cold marble stone,
Of permanence it speaks,
But time will wear the profound words
Cold wet drops of water fell from fingers of ice.
Down, down they fell from the snow laden spruce.
Shadowed from the distant tiny sun an alder peeked above the snow.
Drop after drop fell on it, each alone so small;
But together they bore into its soul.
In winter's grip the alder had no passion.
The tall spruce stole all the light.
It stifled the alder's essence from flowing.
Until came a man, with an ax.
Then, with a crack and a thud, the spruce was made to fall.
For the alder, the echo of its crash never faded.
As it resounded off other trees and the knoll.
But in time the trickling of drops became a rush.
As winter’s grip fled before the sun.
Its warmth lifted the snowy vale, from the eyes of the growing alder.
With eyes unmasked, the alder was leery of all that it saw.
But the steadfast sun rose overhead, the alder absorbed its warmth.
And it reached towards the light, and felt itself grow.
Its roots grew strong and encircled others, binding it firmly to the soil.
And it saw for the first time the mountain that became its home.
life could be simpler
the flowers could last longer
spring would come sooner
we could live by the sea
peace would live forever
there were no problems to solve
no pain to feel
no burdens to bear
no tears to shed
Come to me so that I may drink of you.
Let me drink you with the passion of my soul.
I long to love, and to be loved, by you.
I long to be and to exist on the mere substance of the air you breath, by way of this passion.
To see you,
To feel you,
To touch you,
To smell you,
To breathe in those passions is the reason for my happiness,
While no reason at all can explain.
Wings of the Heart
Saddened by the thoughts of the day, a heart stops to ponder.
Knowing it should not feel sorrow, it cries the silent tears of life.
How can it feel what it should not feel?
Why is it allowed to go to places it should not see?
Why does it cry for desires unspoken,
On the wings of a broken heart?
Is it true, that if you let something go, something that you feel, something that you know,
that something may return to thee?
How, how can that be?
How to cling to something so uncertain?
How to trust in what you can’t see.
Maybe, just maybe, it’s time to stop a thing, a thing that should not be.
But what can a heart do to stop this pain?
How can it stop shedding the tears of broken life?
Perhaps it’s to remember that the heart has wings,
To carry aloft like a kite.
I am born of substance in the darkness of space.
Around me are countless others, joining the race.
I look at a distant pinpoint of light.
It's brighter than others; It somehow seems right.
I shake the shackles that hold me here,
Drawn towards the light without any fear.
The time is long the distance so great.
We must travel far to find our mate.
I near you knowing space isn't dark,
And must be more than gravity's lark.
Through space I hurtle, thrown like a knife.
You've reached to me and I flare to life.
Until the day they met, the pages of their lives were blank, like unwritten manuscripts of lives unspent. But by some author unknown, distant but ever-present, the pages began to write:
The story tells of their friendship, a bond for life,
But to know of happiness there must be strife.
A kindling of a romance and a future to face,
Along comes a child to cement the embrace.
The days turn to months, months become years.
They battle their demons turn to each other for cheers.
Their story is told with harrowing twists of fate,
And strength gained from challenges supporting their mate.
But truth be told, for the author unknown,
We know not the future, for which is sown.
For all the love for which they are smitten
The author has left the final chapters unwritten.
At the center, the powerful brilliance of the sun.
Racing outwards, just minutes at light speed are the inner planets,
Mercury but a dried up rock, Venus sizzling with anxiety.
Green Earth, teaming with life, a cauldron of confusion and chaos.
Past the warring planet of Mars—named by humans who find no peace.
Asteroids, thousands of them, a planet that once was, pulled apart by invisible forces.
After a minute the large planets pass by, Jupiter, the Greek’s God supreme. Saturn,
Neptune, Uranus and the far distance icy Pluto.
More time passes and than again time.
Distance is the physical law observed here and gravity is half by its square.
Further out still, at the edge of the chaotic solar system. Connected to it by the invisible threads of physical attraction, the Ort Cloud.
Like millions of marionettes they circle the chaotic center played upon by one simple rule,
The rule of the gravity, the rule of attraction, the rule of the Sun.
From time to time, in a cosmic perspective, the strings playing upon an icy rock are tugged free from the elemental bounds that hold it to its brother.
It stirs and free falls for millennium towards its beckoning mistress.
It falls at dizzying speeds, hurtling towards the center of existence.
Spewing forth particles of water and the gases freed by the breath of its solar goddess.
Each time it falls it changes, loses parts of itself and becomes a different shape.
An innate object given movement and a semblance of life—thankful to the sun.
Its tail grows longer and humans take note.
For a moment they ponder the infinite, and reflect at the mysteries of the Universe.
And they give this snowball a name, Hale-Bopp.
Scientists study it and lovers embrace it, if but for a moment.
If the sun doesn’t consume it. Hale-Bopp will speed on its way.
It tail always pointing, home, towards the darkness of the ort cloud.
I am under our dark blanket filled with a million stars,
My eyes of wonder, gazing at the unknown.
A being rocked by the quiet harmony of waters that are
Gently, lapping at the hull of an old catamaran.
On a trampoline, with no spring, laying quietly, waiting sleep,
As night has stolen the laughter of day.
Now a haunting movement begins,
Sounds of the night envelop me.
Beginning slowly, a chorus of peepers play in the weeds.
Quiet is soon filled with their deafening din of their enthusiasm.
The night progresses, the second movement now,
Violins played by loons echo melodiously across the pond.
An invisible hand lowers, the orchestra becomes muted,
The brilliant stars fade as my mind's eye closes.
The peace flows around me....
Aware, or am I, conscious of a distant base, a lone voice,
A horned owl calls out from the hill.
I wake to the noise of nothing,
It is so unbelievably still, so unbelievably dark.
A dark punctuated only by the millions of miniscule lights,
In the blanket of my world.
At this hour the lights are different, unfamiliar, characters playing in an ancient riddle.
But somehow, I am part of them, and they--with me.
Cold reaches through my sleeping bag,
I curl into a ball.
Moist cold air,
Dew on my bed.
The stars twinkle fades,
Mist rises in the pallor, of a beginning day.
A new sound emerges, thoughtfully, slowly,
Is it a plodding of a moose through nearby rushes,
Or maybe, with the concert over,
It is the usher, telling me it’s time to go inside.
Warm breezes rustled the locks of children,
On those long summer days of youth.
When each day born a brilliant orb,
That moved through a sea of blue .
The children's cheerful voices rang-out,
Above the din of day-to-day.
Each time a cloud resembled a ship,
That sailed by on its way.
Those clouds, like ships, steered no special course,
As they winded their way through the blue.
The days grew shorter, The ships steered straighter,
Not long til they sailed out of sight.
Summer's brilliance waned, the wind a memory
Of ships at sail at sea.
Those ships from this shore are seen no more.
Bu t on a distant shore they may....
Life as a clock passes inevitably on.
Movement by Movement the face changes, marking the passage of time.
Moment by moment, day by day, each glimpse we are given shows the change.
The days are numbered, our time is counted, by the gentle ticking of the clock.
Not all clocks have their due; some wind down and stop, far to soon.
When they cease to move, we'll still have memories, and these can start them a new.
We'll see again the movement of the hands, tracing a careful path across the face.
And we'll hear again, that thunderous ring, and the gentle chime.
Of the time when our hands were joined as one.
Dangling tresses from a sturdy oak tree.
Grayish green moss leaning down,
Down, trying to touch the ground.
Fingers reaching out to caress my face,
I’m eager for their touch,
Teasing, beckoning me to climb high,
High into the branches.
To climb high where you make your home,
Amid the safety and security of what you know and believe.
I’m eager to try, eager to please, eager to rise up for you.
But the trunk is so large,
What is sturdy for you is impossible for me,
Impossible to grasp, impossible to climb.
Slipping down the trunk,
Falling in a heap at the base,
Frustrated, wanting, I look up at your fingers still motioning to me
The poet in us lives only once.
He springs from love, from pain.
When both are gone the poet moves on.
And the philosopher takes his place.
He writes the words of understanding,
The thoughts tying up lose ends.
He knows that life is beyond his control,
And to accept what fate decrees.
Deep inside the poet's heart is still.
His dreamy eyes are put to rest.
But the philosopher smiles and says all is well.
In a world beyond his control.
in a crowded room of 1000 Eyes.
it is my Fancy captured by your guise.
where Bodies float like pollen on the breeze
and voices melt like snow into the Seas.
from within we've Hungrily forged our ties.
a Need so innate, it's hard to disguise.
at games and Laughter we did start to tease,
tender words, warm Embrace, moments to seize.
chance brought us Together, that no wealth buys.
you help me find again, the will to Rise.
where my spirit Soars, unrestrained set free
and love is for you, and maybe for me.
If I should hear in some distant May,
Of your death a dreaded dark day.
My eyes would well my spirits sink.
For those days of yore and that dress of pink.
I'd look to my left, not your face I'd see,
But the concern of another looking at me.
She'd ask me my troubles, taking my hand;
I'd turn away fearing, that truth may land.
In stillness I've kept my love alive,
Living and working, finding the courage to survive.
But each day, a quiet time, my eyes would tear.
As today as each day and every single year.
Your face, your smile, your voice raised as high,
I hear you now, signing in the sky.
I asked you of happiness you turned your head to cry.
If only in life you had the courage to try.
Then I would have loved, instead I longed for you.
Now with silent tears I dream of a life a new.
I walk to my cave, where I find a retreat.
My loss final now, my heart does so bleat.
I remember the cottage, the moutain, the lake,
And that afternoon on the rocks, my memory I can't shake.
With words so true and passion revealed.
You were so surprised your head must have reeled.
With care and concern you looked into my eyes,
Held my hand and gaze and told me some lies.
You have feelings you said, but for us not now.
My body shrank, my soul plunged, my heart did so bow.
Through all these years of life my heart to mend.
And broken still, to my journey's end.